


An Unexpected Husband

by framboise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, First Kiss, Insecurity, Older Man/Younger Woman, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-13 02:26:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15354195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/framboise/pseuds/framboise
Summary: When Ned learns of Joffrey's true character he makes a hasty betrothal between his daughter and Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne, sending Sansa to a land and culture she is unprepared for, and to the arms of a man she fears she will only disappoint.“I am well, my prince,” she says, sitting up and patting down her hair, trying to compose herself. “I apologise for...” she tries to think of the right word but her head is pounding from a morning spent outside in the gardens under the beating sun, and an hour of crying over some forgotten insult or hurt, which seems to be a weekly occurrence even though she has lived in Sunspear for six moons now. “I apologise for my conduct,” she says finally, voice breaking, “it is unbecoming of me, and ungrateful.”





	An Unexpected Husband

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Silberias](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silberias/gifts).



> This story was sparked by the prompt "You need to wake up because I can’t do this without you" but I ended up going in a different direction entirely...
> 
> Oberyn and Sansa are their canon ages in this story, so Sansa is about 14, but there is no sexual contact beyond a kiss.
> 
> if you want visuals for this fic I made a graphic [here](https://framboise-fics.tumblr.com/post/176089889322/when-ned-learns-of-joffreys-true-character-he)

 

 

“You must wake up, Sansa,” Prince Oberyn murmurs, his breath disturbing the curtain of hair she is trying to hide behind, “for I fear I cannot beat Obella at cards without your assistance and I know you are not truly asleep,” he says and she can hear his amiable smile. He is always amiable, kind and courteous to her, and she does not deserve it.

“I do not wish to,” she says, refusing to open her eyes, feeling her chin dimple and twitch.

“Oh, my lady, please do not cry," he says gently, "forgive me, you may rest for longer if you like,” he says, and she feels the couch she lies on dip as he sits beside her. She has fled to one of the quieter rooms in the royal apartments of Sunspear, where the walls are covered by a deep blue mosaic that she finds soothing, that reminds her of the skies of Winterfell at dusk. “I only thought you might like a chance to beat Obella at cards to pay her back for that trick she played with the wooden snake.”

The thought of the wooden snake - of the tame, and good-natured, joke Obella had played on Sansa a week ago which had sent her into a fit of entirely too dramatic tears - makes her feel even worse. She is an embarrassment to herself, and to her betrothed. He must think her so ridiculous, so childish and petty and scornful, but she cannot help the way she reacts to things, she cannot help feeling so discomforted and out-of-sorts at being sent here to Dorne when she had always imagined living in the Red Keep; at being betrothed to the Red Viper and not to Prince Joffrey, after her father had forbidden it when had he learned of certain of Joffrey’s unsavoury habits which he refused to tell her of despite her pleading and which, both Jon and Robb had agreed with unusual solemnity, meant that they would steal her away from King’s Landing themselves if she were to be married to the crown prince. A monster, they had called him, and it had frightened her, made her feel relieved to arrive in Dorne where the Martells had welcomed her with every kindness, with warmth and generosity, with gifts of silks and jewels and all such fine things that she had always dreamed of. And yet she still behaves thus, petulantly, nervously, weeping at all and sundry.

“What’s the matter, hmm,” he says, stroking her hair back from her face, his thumb brushing away her tears as she blinks open her swollen eyes to find him leaning over her, looking handsome and so concerned it makes her want to weep even more.

“I am well, my prince,” she says, sitting up and patting down her hair, trying to compose herself. “I apologise for...” she tries to think of the right word but her head is pounding from a morning spent outside in the gardens under the beating sun, and an hour of crying over some now-forgotten insult or hurt, which seems to be a weekly occurrence even though she has lived in Sunspear for six moons now. “I apologise for my conduct,” she says finally, voice breaking, “it is unbecoming of me, and ungrateful.”

“Sansa,” he says, lifting her chin with his finger. “Has someone in my household upset you, said something that has caused you hurt?”

“No, I have been welcomed as if I am their kin,” she says.

She had expected to be treated horribly when she arrived, having heard for the first time on the journey south of her betrothed's long-time paramour who, it was said, he had set aside for his new bride. Yet when she arrived it was Ellaria who was the most kind, the most welcoming. They had come to the end of their romance, Ellaria had told Sansa, correcting the rumours she had heard, and though she said that she would always love him as the father of her children, other men would now warm her bed, and Sansa had stammered with embarrassment and shock at Ellaria’s bald words. She had much to learn those first few moons in Dorne, she still has much to learn she believes, not least about Dornish beliefs about love and fidelity, and the prerogative of women to take and discard lovers as they wished.

Her mother had wept when Ned had signed the raven agreeing to the rushed betrothal with Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne. _You send her to a land of craven lusts_ , Sansa had heard her mother argue from the door she crouched behind with Arya. _He has eight bastard daughters, Ned, and half of them are older than Sansa is. He is a warrior hardened by travels among the barbarians of the East, and who knows what base customs he has picked up from them?_

She had not heard the rest of her mother's speech, for Old Nan had walked past and tsked her tongue at them, telling them that if they were idle enough to eavesdrop then she had old furs for them to mend, and Sansa had lied and said that she had promised to help Arya with her reading and hurried to her room to lie under the covers of her bed, heart pounding as she imagined some brutish, dirt-smeared barbarian come to take her for his wife.

When the betrothal had been made, Catelyn had but a few weeks to share what little she knew about Dorne with Sansa before she travelled to White Harbor and onwards, over the seas to Sunspear, and once Arya had herself heard from Robb about the fearsome Sand Snakes, she had wished nothing more than to accompany Sansa to Dorne so that she might meet them too, but Catelyn had forbade it. She might visit Dorne with her future husband one day, their mother had said and Arya had screwed up her face and said that this was monstrously unfair since she knew that Arya was determined never to wed, and she had been punished for her rudeness by being made to sweep the corridors outside their rooms. _It’s better than stupid sewing_ , she had muttered to Sansa later.

She misses Arya most of all now, she thinks, though they were never particularly close as sisters. It is only that Arya should have liked it here, where women are allowed to be wilder, fiercer, where Oberyn himself trains his daughters with spear and whip. Perhaps she will visit in the future, if their father might find a husband for her who was warned in advance about her wildness. Sansa's own betrothed was no doubt told of his bride's sweet and courteous nature and she is sure he must be disconcerted indeed to discover that she is only ungracious and mournful.

“You _are_ kin, you are to be my wife,” her betrothed says and she tries to find some disappointment, some scorn, in his face and yet sees only kindness.

“I am sorry you were compelled to marry me,” she says sorrowfully.

“Whyever would you be sorry?” he says, kneeling before the couch now, taking her hands in his, the contrast of her soft unblemished skin to his weathered calluses seeming to foreground their many differences. He is a man grown, a warrior, and she is but a spoiled girl. “For I am not,” he continues. “Do you think I could be compelled to marry someone I did not wish to, the Red Viper himself, I who had spent many many years unwed?”

“Perhaps you were only thinking of Dorne,” she says hesitantly, for she knows how much he loves his country.

He shakes his head, squeezing her hands gently. “I agreed to the betrothal because I wished to, because I had heard of your loveliness, your grace, and your spirit too, and because I did not want you to be crushed by a cruel boy who could not hope to deserve you.”

“I am but a child,” she says. Why should he wish to marry such a foolish girl as her when he can have his pick from the women of Dorne.

“Not quite a child,” he says, and she blushes at the reminder of her flower which bloomed a moon ago, “but there is no rush, I have waited many years to wed and I will wait many more should you need them. It shall be good for me to have a youthful bride to keep me on my toes in my dotage,” he says, eyes twinkling, “to stop me from getting dull and shrewish with age.”

She smiles and he seems to delight in it.

“Why are you smiling?” 

“I cannot imagine you might ever be dull, or shrewish,” she says as she studies his now-familiar face, his dark eyes and his wicked mouth, the widow's peak which is repeated in all his daughters.

He has become dear to her, her betrothed, in the moons they have spent together, and when she is alone and thinks of laying with him her body heats with a want that embarrasses her.

“I fear I shall always be a burden to you,” she admits, with no hitch of her voice or tears rolling down her cheeks, “a frail wife who hides away in shaded rooms and who lacks the fire and spirit of a true Dornishwoman.”

“These fears of yours are unfounded,” he says firmly. “You shall not be a burden, Sansa, you shall be treasured, and if you find that the heat cannot be borne we shall simply spend our days at the Water Gardens, and I should be happy with that,” he smiles and she believes him. “And as for your spirit, you see your tears as a weakness, I know, but I do not, you are passionate at heart, Sansa, as am I. Do you think that I have never spent moons weeping over my own fears and hurts, never chafed at unfamiliar circumstances in which I found myself? I am glad that you show your emotions plainly to me, that I do not have to scry beneath layers of polite indifference. I understand, as does my family, that your new home will take some adjustment, that your mother and septa never prepared you for a life in Dorne. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my prince,” she says, heart beating thickly at the power of his words and his searching gaze.

“It would please me if you called me Oberyn, my lady,” he says, pulling her to stand.

“Oberyn,” she says with a shy smile and he cups her cheek in his hand.

He is only a little taller than her now and of late she has idly noticed that she might only rock up onto her toes for their lips to meet. Perchance he has had the same thought for now he bends to gift her a first kiss, moving his lips carefully against hers, teaching her how to kiss him back, and by the time he steps back she feels quite flushed and warm, and there is a flutter in her stomach like the wings of a butterfly.

“Now, shall you join my team to defeat Obella at cards and get your revenge?”

“I shall,” she says, nodding mock-fiercely and he laughs and offers his arm, and guides her from the room and into her favourite courtyard, shaded with orange trees and trailing blossoms, the warm breeze from the ocean threading through the colonnades, and the joyful laughter of his daughters making her feel warm and welcomed.

She could love Dorne, and her life here, and perhaps that is the hardest thing to admit, to accept, to make a new home and leave her old one behind, to forge a life where, despite what her septa had insisted of her future, pleasure might outweigh duty. Oberyn is a second son, a prince with few obligations, and she is not the wife of a crown prince, nor a queen-to-be. There is an idleness about her life here that she chafes against only because it pleases her so. She feels guilty about _not_ feeling guilty, and it is all a silly muddle in her head.

“Come sit beside me,” Oberyn says, leading her by the hand to the couch near the incense burner that trails its woozy scent through the air. “You are frowning again,” he murmurs, as Tyene, who is lately visiting from Oldtown, hands out the cards.

“I think too much sometimes, my thoughts rush through my head like runaway horses.”

“Then we shall have to find ways to distract them. Horses like fruits do they not? Should you like to visit my orchards in the hills tomorrow?”

“I should, yes,” she says.

She has declined many such invitations since her arrival in Dorne, as if perhaps by hiding away she might find herself back home in Winterfell, or because of some fear that those who observe her and her betrothed together might find her lacking, might judge her.

She must trust in her husband-to-be, she thinks now, in his words and his manner. _A man cannot love you if you do not let him_ , her mother had told her on one of her last nights in Winterfell, as she brushed her hair for her before her mirror, and she had not understood what she meant at the time. But now - as her Oberyn smiles at her and brings an answering smile to her own lips - she thinks she does.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> please comment, I'd love to know what people think! :)
> 
> There is a possibility I might add to this story with scenes from their future marriage (if I have time amongst all the other WIPs I have brewing).
> 
> my tumblr: [framboise-fics](http://framboise-fics.tumblr.com)
> 
> and there's a rebloggable photoset for this story [here](https://framboise-fics.tumblr.com/post/176089889322/when-ned-learns-of-joffreys-true-character-he)


End file.
